The Slow Burn
by Chanlin Marr
Summary: A Nosferatu finds a lesson in the scarred flesh of another...Read/Review! Sequel soon!


_**The Slow Burn**_  
By  
Chanlin Marr

I don't even remember what I looked like, so long has my countenance been afflicted by the blood born curse of my 'forbearers.' Those of my warren (support group) tell me that this passes, with time. In time, they say, I'll come to understand the beauty within, in absence of that which was once without.

_Bull_.

I was embraced out of spite. My features were apparently "too perfect;" my manner "too egotistical." I had to be set right. I had to be shown the truth. I had to be damned, for nothing more than an effect of genetics and certain personality traits. And now, I'm supposed to simply sit back and see it for the inner-spirit-altering, (un)life-perspective- changing 'gift' so many under the streets profess it to be. All it is to me is an existence of hatred for what the change has done to me, and how I can never go back to the world I once knew.

Maybe that's what draws me here so often, to the burn unit.

Granted, I never really gave a rip about other people prior to the change. I just did my own thing: what I wanted, when I wanted. Now, I can't even eat a steak without acting like a Hollywood starlet and coughing it up as soon as it goes down. But, I don't know…I suppose these people, scarred as they are, usually through no fault of their own…I guess I feel a bit of a kinship towards them. At least they can see the perspective of life afterwards, minus the Kindred diatribe about humanity and self-reflection. But what hits me the worst is the kids: the little boys and girls who got too close to the stove, or weren't being watched closely enough by less- than-adequate parents on the 4th of July. Unlike me, they won't even have a chance to know life before the scars came.

Tonight, I found the worst yet.

Every Friday night, like clockwork, I don the friendliest face I can recall, my cousin Chris, and head to Saint Joseph's. I've come in so often now, the nurses remember the alias I gave them that first night better than I do. I just nod and smile my fake smile, following the yellow line painted on the floor to the burn unit. The cold, cheery fluorescent light gives my deformed shadow no purchase upon which to manifest. The smell of antiseptic and medicine, for a time, erases from my malformed nostrils the scent of filth and slime that I've, frighteningly, become used to in my time under the city. Maybe I come here because, for a short while, I can forget where and what I am.

I turn the corner, letting the heel of my foot rotate quite precisely upon the shifting angle of the yellow line. For some reason, my dancer's agility had survived the change; one small remnant to compound all that did not. My eyes rise from the yellow-slick road, only to see the burn unit completely empty.

Completely, save for one bed, its only occupant the small, curved shape that could only be that of a child. The hairstyle suggests a small boy, curled up in the fetal position under a blanket, his back turned to me. For a moment I think to leave, not wanting to wake the kid up. He turns to lie on his back, staring up at the ceiling and then, sensing another presence in the room, at me.

Now, they always say in that clichéd way that children have the faces of angels. I never put much stock into that, even after my time in the burn ward, mostly because whatever angelic qualities the child's face once possessed were wiped clean by the harsh caress of fire's tongue. But whatever burns this child had suffered were elsewhere on his body, for his face really glows with innocence. His icy blue eyes focus upon my own, then seem to 'refocus,' slightly.

"Hi." The feeble squeak of someone who hasn't spoken in a while issues forth from the child's lips. "Were you hurt too?"

It takes me a moment to comprehend what the child means but I realize, almost instantly, that what he gazes at is not the façade I've thrown over myself, but the 'real' me. The me burned by the Embrace.

I stand stock still, every instinct telling me to flee, if not for my own sake (or the child's) than for the feeble idea of the 'Masquerade' all the others lament. But the boy just looks impassive, as if the sight of me (if that is what he's seeing) offends him not at all.

My brain tries to wrap itself around the idea that this child (I'm almost certain) can see me for what I am now, and yet not a trace of fear or revulsion rests in his face. Such an innocent face…

"Erm…uh…yeah…I mean, yes. I've been hurt, too." Carefully, almost fearfully, I walk towards the boy, our eyes locked upon each other. I grab a chair, and slide it to his bedside and, with a pause of consideration, I sit down, hoping to whatever force of fate that has led me this far, that by staying I'm not damning both myself _and_ the child.

We look upon each other, and from this angle, I notice for the first time that the edges of gauze bandages begin just at the top of his chest, disappearing under the flannel sheets. I look back at to his serene face.

"So…what's your name? I'm Alex." The child, almost in reflex it seems, sticks out his hand to shake.

"I'm Toby."

I reach out my mangled claw to shake his tiny hand, and realize that this is probably the first time I've had any non-feeding physical contact with a mortal in…how many years?

"Um…nice to meet you Toby," I respond as I shake his hand gently, "How…uh, old are you?"

"I'm six. How old are you?"

"Oh…I'm…really old. I stopped counting a long time ago." I try to project the best smile my face can manage. He nods slightly at this, and his gaze shifts slightly downwards. One of those famous 'comfortable silences' has fallen across the room. The only intrusion is the buzz of the fluorescents above, and the muffled mutterings of the hospital PA system.

Toby gestures to me with his chin and, almost in a whisper, asks: "So…did your Dad do that?"

The question catches me totally off-guard. It has a completely different, and eerily accurate, meaning for me, and for a long minute, I can only gape at the boy. I recover myself, and realize that I need not really lie to the boy. I'm surprised that such a concept comes as such a shock: how long had I been playing the Kindred's game that the truth should be such an alien idea to me?

"Well…actually…yes, he did. In a way…why? Did your father do…well, did he hurt you?"

Toby nods, his face a soft block of stone, his eyes focused on what I can only guess is memory. Memory of whatever it was that happened.

"He says I'm bad, and I have to learn to be good. I don't think he means it when he hurts me. I try to be good…" he trails off, his mouth twisting slightly, gaze cast aside, as if he senses he's said too much. I feel a welling up within me I haven't felt since the first years of my change. I'm not sure whether it's the boy's story, that so closely matches my own, or the fact that I'm actually talking with a human face to true face.

I find myself actually fighting to say something, but what do you say to someone in a situation like this?

"What does he…I mean…how did he hurt you?" Christ, as if I yearn to know more scars. But something makes me ask anyway.

The kid surprises me again by showing no hesitation at all, and I wonder if maybe he hasn't already had to repeat this story to the cops or social services several times.

"He put an iron on my tummy and back…said I had to stop laughing all the time…"

My maw of a mouth gapes, and for a long minute, the muffled silence again falls into the room. His eyes come up to mine (no fear…not even a twitch) and he must see the shock in my own, because he takes on this look like he's done something _else_ wrong. I try to calm him.

"No…it's ok. I'm sorry I just…I don't understand why someone would do that. Have you…told anyone about this?"

His little shoulders shift up and down. "No…not really. The nurse said she put me in here so I could talk to other kids about being burned…but there weren't any kids in here."

"So…what did you tell them when they asked?" I already knew, with dread, the gist of the answer I'd be given.

"Dad said to tell that I was playing with the iron and hurt myself…he said they'd take me away if I said different." His eyes fill with fear then, and he sits up to grab my wrist, the motion washing a look of pain across his face, the burn probably crackling under the bandages as his body moves.

"You're not going to tell, are you? Please don't tell, ok? I don't wanna get taken away!"

I almost lurch away from his hand by instinct, but hold myself steady, listen to his words…and it's too much.

It's just too much.

"No…no I won't tell…look, uh, Toby, I have to go now, ok? Yeah…um…." I stand and turn, thrusting the image of my cousin to the forefront of my concentration, desperate to slip back into anonymity. I push out the child's squeak of "Wait! I'm sorry, I-"

I let the hushed activity of the hospital fill my tattered ears, and eventually break out onto the street. I rush to the corner of the building and round it, safe for a moment in the unlit alley. I lean against the wall, a feeling of restlessness overtaking me. I don't understand what it is, it's almost as if…

My claw finds its way to my chest and…there…my heart…but it hasn't done that in…

I growl low, more out of fear and confusion than anger, and my instincts make me unseen as I lope away from the hospital to the nearest secluded manhole.

- - - - - -

I know they want to ask me what happened. Some of them can smell when you're feeling a certain way, which is surprising given the stench we all live in. But they must have a way of telling when something is and isn't their business, because they've left me alone.

Brooding in the sewer half-pipe I staked out as mine a long time ago, I repeat the night's events over and over in my head, wondering if I'll be able to erase it from my memory with a few years of busywork. But I know I won't. I didn't even need to see under the bandages. That look on his face when he moved…

My mind's eye turned back to when I first began to change. I cringe at the thought, at the uncounted nights of writhing in a shit-smeared tunnel, listening as my bones endlessly shifted and cracked, feeling my skin stretch and warp and, throughout it all, the blinding pain of metamorphosis.

But, what about this boy? Who knows how much his father has already done to him…and how much more will happen. Compared to the relatively brief scarring I suffered, this kid might go through this for years. Or, if his father goes too far, maybe not even that.

I growl again, this time in whole anger and pound my fist against the slimy concrete. I feel some finger bones snap, along with a bit of stone chip away at my strike. But I don't care. All I can think about is the child and…stopping the father.

Yessss…

- - - - - -

Trudging myself down along the narrow sewer pipe, my movement is based only on rote memory of the tunnels. My mind is firmly set in a rotating vista of the things I plan to do to that child's father. It plays out in my head like a movie with a thousand variant endings: approach the house, kick down the door, and bash his brains in; approach the house, knock on the door, and scare him to death; approach the house, punch through the door, chase him to the kitchen, knock him out, tie him up, plug in the iron, let it heat up hot, then hold it over his face while my dripping drool sizzles off the metal as I slowly press it into his eyes…

I'm snapped out of my disturbingly satisfying reverie by arriving at my destination. I got so lost in thought for a minute there…

None would wonder (if anyone outside of the warren ever saw his real face) why we had taken to calling him Yoda. Though the reference was lost on many of the elder members of the group, saying it occasionally allowed us of the younger set a small chuckle. I didn't use it this time. I wasn't in a chuckling mood.

"I need some information." The request (command?) came out of my throat like a feral growl, and I was taken aback by it slightly. Where had my mind gone? Why was I…

Yoda spun around at my words, shock filling his eyes briefly.

"Oh…it's you. Well, -we're- in a mood, aren't we?"

"Sorry," I make an effort to compose myself, "I…look, I need some help tracking someone down. I know Alan hauled some new equipment down here for you recently, so-"

"_Recently_? Christ, man, Alan brought that stuff down 3 years ago. You've really got the 'eternal brain' in a bad way, don't you?"

I wave away his ribbing, frustration rising into my throat and mind.

"Whatever, 3 years, 3 decades…can you still get into outside files? Names, addresses, that sort of thing?"

Something in my voice, or maybe something that came across what was left of my face, must have hinted to him that this wasn't some sort of casual inquiry of mine, but a _need_. A serious need. The sarcasm leaves his attitude, and he looks at me squarely.

"All right…yeah. What am I looking for?"

"A boy, six years old. He's registered at Saint Joe's right now, in the burn unit. First name is Toby. Can you get me his home address?"

Yoda took out a scrap of stained paper and a half-broken ballpoint, scratching out the details I relayed. Once finished, he looks over the short list, nodding absently, as if he were forming a plan of electronic attack on whatever computer systems he knew he'd be diving into.

"Give me an hour or so…" he looked at his cracked Swatch casually.

I nod, slightly irritated, but somewhat satisfied. I still feel the heat pulsing behind my eyes, images of scarred skin and a hot iron-

"Just…promise me I'm not going to regret getting this info for you by the next gather, all right?"

My eyes lock on Yoda's, and I come out of my distraction once more. "If anything goes wrong, I'll say I got the stuff out of the phonebook."

Yoda sighs and gets up from his rickety desk, shuffling down the darkened tunnel that leads to most of his computer equipment, his huge ears flapping gently all the way.

I hunker down on the grimy floor and seethe, trying to force the hour to pass more quickly. I close my eyes, and try to arrange my thoughts: I just want to ensure that the boy doesn't come to any further harm (_burn the father_) and, barring that, that the kid ends up in a safe place (_dad's gotta die_). But I can't keep my thoughts in one single file line. Thinking of one thing takes me to another: his father to my sire, the yellow stripe on the floor to Eliza's hair, the iron to my mother and Sunday mornings-

"Here."

My eyes snap open to see Yoda standing in front of me, holding out a small piece of paper clutched between the bony stumps that pass for his fingers. I reach out for the scrap, knowing I look a little bewildered.

"An…an hour's passed already?"

"Phfft," he sputters in disgust, "no you dummy. It' been about fifteen minutes. I'm like Scotty: I always overestimate. It's a habit. Impresses the older folks when I finish faster." He chuckles slightly at that, then quickly gets back to the matter at hand. "Couldn't find any info on the boy, specifically, but there was a registry made at the nurse's station a couple of days ago about a man bringing in a kid, didn't say male or female, to be looked at for burns. Said it was listed as a 'household accident.'"

"Sounds about right," I mutter, glancing over the piece of paper as I stand up.

"The guy didn't have insurance, apparently. Paid with a credit card. Worked backwards from there to his credit rec-"

"Fine, fine. Look, I don't need the play-by-play. Is this his address here or not?" The growl was back. I wasn't interested in standing around, listening to dumbo here wax technical at me. Yoda takes a step back at my bark. I don't care.

"Yeah…yeah that's him. Calm down, ok?" he pauses a second, then, "No…no this is a bad idea. Give me back the paper. You're not thinking straight. I can see it." He reaches up to snatch the address from me.

I drill my gaze into his, bringing myself up to my full height and bare my misshapen fangs at him. From the pit of my stomach, the fire rises to my throat. "Stay _**away**_!" And like flipping a switch, he turns on his heel and retreats back down the tunnel to his computers, muttering "What the hell?" as he goes.

I keep my fire stoked as I shove the address into my pocket and take the twisted route to the 110th Street manhole. I'm not even thinking about the kid. It's just the need now. The need to close the circle.

I slide quietly through the manhole and out into the blackwashed city, phasing myself from sight as I pad my way towards the fath…the juicebag. The juicebag that doesn't even know he's popped yet.

- - - - - -

The city has lost a good deal of its grandeur for me, since the change. People are to be avoided. Stores and cafes aren't places I can really go into anymore (not that I need to anyway). Buildings are just landmarks: big concrete blocks that make a rats maze to negotiate. Of course, once you start looking at it like that, it makes it so much easier to get from point A to point B without being distracted by the smells of food, the gatherings of kine, and the latest sale in the department store windows.

I pad down the street, making my way south. I thread quickly, but carefully, through the pedestrians, the face I've thrown over myself utterly forgettable. I check the slip of paper once more, just to make sure I've got my bearings. "Timothy Duval," I growl, then look around quickly on the chance anyone heard me. Inhuman snarls from forgettable humans have a nasty habit of making them much more memorable. But no, the rush of the traffic and the people lost in their own lives covers my utterance. I clamp my jaw down, determined not to make any –more- mistakes…like maybe looking good and having a high level of self-esteem (damn him).

I shake the now very old animosity away. Need to keep focused. Need to keep moving.

It's a long trek through the thinning populated areas before I stop to check my progress. The address has led me to a less than shining section of town. I must have stepped over the proverbial "tracks" a few blocks back, because I was definitely on the other side of them.

There's no one around now, just the darkness between functioning streetlights, the distant yap of a sad dog, and me, standing in front of the place. It's a three story, cracked-brick tenement, looking the same as all the others on the block around it. The only difference was that this one had a light on. Room 3A, I hope.

I glance right and left as I climb the shoddy set of stairs to the front door. Good. No witnesses makes this so much easier. I look up to the lit window, and see movement inside. I can picture him drunk, stumbling around the place. Taking his kid to the doctors was probably the last lucid, benevolent thing he's done in years. The sonofabitch.

The door is guarded by an old and rusted iron gate, which I handily yank off its frame with a single tug and a growl, letting it clatter down the steps as I smash the flimsy door open with a _crack_ of my knotted fist. I want him to hear me. I don't care about other residents as I barge in, but it's a moot point anyway; doesn't look like anyone else is dumb enough to live in this rattrap.

I stomp towards the staircase, forcing blood into my muscles on instinct and anger. Up the two flights before I know it, feet leaving holes in the stairs as I go. I see the door. I smell him. Sweat. Fear. I snarl loud. More fear. Kick down the door, rush in. He runs away and I chase, into the bedroom. Dark, but I see. Jump on him. Grab'im by the neck and hold 'im down, look right at'im an' let out fangs…

"Please, God! No! Please No!" Meatsack squeaks at me. Dumb ugly meatsack. Squeeze hand on his neck. Wanna jam my teeth into the bald head, all scarred up…all scarred up like…like burns. His face…no definition. Just burns. Scars. His hands…and legs. Burned.

Wait. Just…wait.

I lean back…let my hand off his throat, but still hold him down with my weight. Gotta…gotta think. He's whimpering, gasping, staring at me. Eyes wide. No pretty face for him to look at. No, not for him. And I just can't understand

"WHY? Why did you do it? You've –been- burned! You know what it means! Why do that to your child? _**Tell**_ me!" His mouth starts flapping as the piece of shit tries to form words.

"H-he h-had to learn! Had to learn life…life isn't fair and being pretty…being pretty and happy isn't all there is. He had to know…"

"Had to know? _HAD TO KNOW!_"

Red is all I see. Mine. His. On the wall. On my claws. I take in as much as I can , and leave the rest to spill.

On the way out I turn on his electric range and dump some newspapers on it. He can have all the burns he wants now.

- - - - - -

I drop in on Yoda again. It's been a day since I paid Daddy a visit. Turning towards me from his desk, he doesn't look at all pleased.

"Want to tell me why the address I gave you last night is now polluting the air over the South district?" I look at him with joyless eyes.

"Ever had to set a wrong right?" He pauses at that.

"Maybe…why?"

"The kid in the hospital is going to end up with Child Services pretty quick. I don't care what I have to do, what I have to owe you or anyone here…I want to make sure that kid is safe. That he ends up with a good family. That he has whatever normal life he can from now on."

There's a long silence, during which Yoda only stares at me, mouth a bit agape. I betray nothing of the anger that still simmers within me. I give off no sense of guilt for what I've done. It was either that, or let a monster destroy an innocent. An innocent…like I used-

"All right," Yoda finally nods, still looking perplexed, "I think I can pull a few strings along the way…but it's going to cost you."

I nod, turn towards the darkened tunnel, and mutter, "It already has."

- - - - - -

"Excellent. He even saved me the cost of having to have the building demolished. I must say Kenneth, I'm impressed with your handling of this. Duval was the last holdout on that block. Now…literally nothing stands in the way of the redevelopment of the South district. Whatever did you tell the boy?"

Kenneth Ashland, the soon-to-be released Childe of Fredrick Allen III, smiled softly in a way only a blueblood can when gloating over a success.

"I told him 'Do not be fooled by pretty faces, Toby. And don't fear the monsters.'"

Fredrick Allen gave a small smirk at that, and looked thoughtfully out over the city from the windows of his suite atop the Allen Building. It was a city he intended, had been intending, to make his one night. Now he was another lengthy step closer to that goal.

"Yes…very good." There was a pause and, for an instant, an almost reminiscent look crossed the Elder Ventrue's face. "Oh…and by the way, make sure some funds are allocated into a trust for the boy, effective his 18th birthday. Put it through Dane Financial, with a note on it. Erm…something to the effect of 'From Anonymous: no boy should have to lose a father so young.' Something like that."

Kenneth was caught a bit off guard, but recovered quickly, and made a note on his palm pilot. "Will there be anything else, Sire?"

"No, I think that will be all for now. Thank you, Kenneth."

Ashland exited without another sound. As he proceeded back to his own office, he smirked inwardly at his own cunning. He would have to use this 'Yoda' again sometime. The intel he had provided on Duval was one thing. But to then inform on one of his own having a thing for the burn unit…that was priceless. It also showed that the dumbo-eared sewer rat had no qualms about crossing Clan lines. Very interesting. Very useful.

Kenneth was, of course, pleased to have satisfied his Sire, but also a bit curious. Mr. Allen was rarely ever this benevolent to a mortal he didn't know.

But then, even the most jaded of Kindred had to have their moments, Kenneth supposed.

- - - - - -

If I could still feel it, I'm sure the cold out here would bother me. I can see his face from here, where I perch. I'm not usually accustomed to playing gargoyle, but I wanted…needed to make sure he was all right. I don't think they've told him about his Dad yet. Still angelic, that face. What I did…I'm not sure what it makes me. Avenger or murderer…I guess it doesn't matter. At least, not right now, it doesn't. What's important is that he's all right. That Toby doesn't end up like his Dad. Or even…like me.

It's hard to watch him lying there, but I know I'll be watching him for a long time. Making sure…just to make sure.

Looking at him, I try once again to remember my own face; my face before. But the only face I see now is his. Maybe that's how it should be. Maybe it's how it has to be.

end 


End file.
